For I Thought Epicurus And Lucretius By

Now No Joy But Lacks Salt That Is Not Dashed With Pain And Weariness And Fault; I Crave The Stain Of Tears, The Aftermark Of Almost Too Much Love, The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

A Liberal Is A Man Too Broadminded To Take His Own Side In A Quarrel.

No Tears In The Writer, No Tears In The Reader. No Surprise In The Writer, No Surprise In The Reader.

A Poem Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom.

Come Grow Old With Me, For The Best Is Yet To Come!